The Most Bitter Parting
by Beruthiel10158
Summary: Vignette. Various characters reflect on Arwen's choice to forsake her Elven grace for love of Aragorn.
1. Wisdom's Folly

_All characters contained herein are the creation of JRR Tolkien and property of the Tolkien estate. I make no claims of ownership to anything mentioned in the story, and write solely for personal pleasure. No money has been or will be made from this writing._   
  


**The Most Bitter Parting**  
_Wisdom's Folly_

  
  
  
At last we have come to the parting of our ways.   
  
Many that still dwell in Middle-earth account me the wisest of all the Wise. But wisdom did not prepare me for this day, though I long foresaw its passing; nor is it any comfort for the pain in my heart. Wisdom is as nothing beside the grief of losing my child. We have spoken long in these hills, my daughter and I. Of times past, memories both of joy and sorrow. Perhaps it is foolish, but as I gaze upon her now, I see not the noble lady she has become, but the tiny babe that once I held in my arms and sang to in the Noldorin tongue of our people.   
  
She stands before me, clad in the royal finery of Gondor, a more radiant Queen than that realm has ever known or will. I would not have her dress so, for I cannot stop myself from the absurdity of thinking that even the finest clothing of those she will rule is too plain and unflattering for a woman who once was a lady of the Elves. But Arwen believes it fitting that she clothe herself in the raiment of those who now look to her as their Queen. She rode into the White City dressed in the blue gown sewn by Celebrían her mother, but would take no other garment into her possession when we set out from Imladris.   
  
Thoughts of my wife waiting beyond the Sea, stab at my anguished heart. I will sail into the West soon, to be rejoined with one treasure even as I lose another. I wonder if Celebrían has foreseen this day, or if it shall be my doom to carry this news to her when at last I set foot in the Blessed Realm. Ai! I have never seen the shores of Elvenhome, and long have I wondered of the isle which I have seen only in dream and passing fancy. Once I believed that when I finally grew weary and sailed into the West, it would be with my children beside me that I stepped onto the shore of Aman, where Celebrían would greet the four of us and we would be a family restored. Alas, I may no longer find comfort in such a fantasy. The wonder of Elvenhome will be lessened when I bear into that land the knowledge that my family is forever diminished. On a time, the thought of seeing my wife again after so long apart brought a well of limitless joy to me. Now I fear that our meeting will be my ruin, and I look not forward to it. How can it be that now I dread the moment I am reunited with my beloved, where once I cherished the thought and could scarcely find the patience to wait?   
  
As many times before, I wonder if Arwen truly understands the weight of her choice. I fear that she does not, will not, until the Sea sunders us fully. Then may regret set its dragonclaw into her sweet heart, never to be removed. But she has some hope, though her choice has brought only the deepest sorrow for myself. No matter what I think, no matter what wisdom may say about the folly of Mortal uniting with the Deathless, Arwen loves the Man Aragorn. Though she loses me, and her brethren and mother, she will have him, and the children that shall come of their union, to comfort her. Yet for all that she will have, I fear that my foreboding will prove true, and in the end my daughter will remember her choice with naught but bitterness. Such pain cannot be assuaged and I would spare her its sting, were the wisdom of an Elf-lord of any avail. But her choice is made and she is bound to the fate of Men. There is nothing I may do.   
  
Unbidden, my thought turns to Aragorn, once called Estel, King now of Gondor and Arnor. I have ever loved him as my son, for he is valorous and wise, and noble of heart. He is the greatest of the Dúnedain that yet remain, and there is no Man more fit to rule their chief kingdom. I took him into my home and reared him when his own sire was slain, and even after so many years of Men have passed, I still remember the wayward toddler as he was brought forth into my House in the gentle arms of Gilraen his mother. Therefore I cannot say that I hate him, for Aragorn is my kin, as were all his forefathers before him. But as I stare into my daughter's face and behold the Doom of Men that has chased away the grace of the Eldar that once arrayed her, and know that once I depart from this place I will see her no more, I can feel no love for the Man that was once the son of my heart. He is mortal; death for him is the way of Men, and as I accepted the loss of my brother, so did I accept that Aragorn would one day die and leave the world forever. It is knowledge that grieves my soul, for Aragorn is nearer to my heart than all his kin before him, save Elros alone. Yet does my heart rage at the Man for his unwitting cruelty. Is it not enough, the knife-thrust to my heart that his death will be? Must he take from me the child of my blood as well? But for Aragorn, Arwen would be safe from death's grasp, free to see the beauty of Valinor. The Dúnadan has taken from me a gem which no Man is worth. It is not right that the Lady of Imladris should be paid for her bright love with the curse of death!   
  
I wanted to deny Aragorn the gift of my daughter's hand. I would have, if I had not the foresight to see the importance--for Men, at least--of their joining, or if I were blind to the tenderness Arwen holds for him. And though it avails me nothing, I wish with all my being that my Úndomiel had rejected Isildur's Heir, that she had indeed looked upon him as a sapling unworthy. My heart was broken the day I learned of her choice, and I have regretted many things hence. For what he has cost me, not least among my regrets is that I brought Aragorn Arathorn's son into my House and hid him from the Eye. My daughter's life is too rich a gift for him to ask of me.   
  
Such a thought might seem uncouth to those in whose thought I am a mighty Elf-lord, wielder of Vilya, whose foremother was Tinúviel herself. But I am also a father, and my thought is bent toward what Arwen loses, for her loss will be greater than her gain. And I trust not to the love of Men in these latter days when all is fading. Aragorn loves my child; of that I have little doubt. Were his love untrue, he would not have waited till the eighty-ninth summer of his life to take a wife for himself. Yet his is not the selfless love of Beren. That mortal desired not that his beloved should follow him into death and accepted her fate only after he understood that he could not disentangle Lúthien from his doom. But Aragorn has done naught to restrain Arwen. Indeed, he has encouraged her to welcome the Doom of Men for love of him. Had I the power, I would have prevented their joining, and Arwen would remain with those who love her truly. But Fate scoffs at the desires of a father and curses me with the gifts of Elvish foresight and wisdom. My daughter loves this wretch who has stripped her of her life's grace, and I may no more rescue her from death now, than I may touch starlight or give shape to the song of the Sea.   
  
Many times since learning of Aragorn's brash desire, I have thought of Thingol who once desired death for the daring of Beren. Ere my lad gave heed to such matters, I regarded the father of fabled Lúthien as prideful and blind, but ever since that day have I looked upon him with understanding. None but a father may rightly judge the actions of that king. But I am not Thingol, who ruled solely according to his will. Though some there were who might have believed that Aragorn had earned the reward of death for his bold aim, the wisdom of Elvish foresight demanded a nobler response. But I do not speak now with the wisdom of the Elf-lords. I was grieved when Celebrían sailed into the West, as was she. Yet that parting was for but a brief time as count the Elves. But when I leave these hills, I will be separated from my child for a time longer than even the Wise can tell. Yet greater is my fear of what lies beyond the Ending. For Arwen now is counted among the Secondborn, and not even the Lord of the Valar knows what the One means for the two Kindreds when Arda is remade. It may be that Eldar and Édain have fates apart, though none yet may guess if that be true.   
  
For love of one beneath her worth, the Úndomiel has cast away her grace and willfully chosen death. Accept it though I must, I cannot find it in my heart to forgive Aragorn for the wound he has dealt me by dragging Arwen with him into death. The day is passing. As with all things, this last moment with my precious daughter must come to its end. Pushing aside all my misgivings, I look at Arwen and smile, though it is forced and I know that she sees the anguish behind it. Seeing my pain reflected back to me in her eyes, I am overwhelmed with shame. I cannot stay, and she may not depart, no matter what choice either may now desire to make. Why do I allow my thoughts to dwell on events I cannot change when I should be cherishing each moment we have left to share?   
  
But we cannot delay forever. Better to say our farewells and depart one from another, lest we succumb to the grieve that threatens to bury us. Both our hearts are breaking, but we must separate at last, though neither she nor I wish to leave. One of us must at last turn away, must conquer grief brought on by the unconquerable tide of change. I am the son of Eärendil. Why then can I not find the strength to act as her father a final, and be the one to bear the burden of breaking away? She looks directly into my eyes suddenly, gazing into the depths of my soul as few can. A wretched father am I, that I cannot mask my tortured thoughts from her searching glance. But though her own grey eyes sparkle with unshed tears, she smiles, mingling love with sorrow in her countenance. Arwen rushes forward then, and casts her arms about me with such force that I stumble backward. Catching myself, I return her embrace and we are locked together in a timeless moment as we drown in shared agony.   
  
But the embrace is short-lived, as all such moments are. Too soon, she releases me and pulls away. Arwen watches me in silence for the briefest of moments, tears now streaming down her white face, and then she steps forward to lay a kiss upon my brow. Turning, she whispers a gentle farewell, and walks away. She does not look back.   
  
*_Namarie, melda!_   
  
  
*Roughly translated as 'Farewell, beloved'  
  
  


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	2. Choice's End

_All characters contained herein are the creation of JRR Tolkien and property of the Tolkien estate. I make no claims of ownership to anything mentioned in the story, and write solely for personal pleasure. No money has been or will be made from this writing._  
  
  


**The Most Bitter Parting**  
_Choice's End_

  
  
  
My father's heart is broken, and I am the one that broke it.   
  
As others were leaving, we remained here in Edoras and sought out these hills to have our last meeting and say our final farewell. It is well that we chose such a place of solitude, for I did not know how much it would shame me to see the hurt I have wrought.   
  
I knew from the moment of choice that it would mean I would someday be sundered from my father forever, but in that long ago moment, the possibility of being wedded to my beloved Estel was beyond hope and seemed at times little more than an unattainable fancy to be longed for but never realized. I could not have guessed the depths of the pain such a day of parting would bring. And I thank Elbereth for my ignorance--for if I had foreseen this moment, I think that my heart would have faltered and that I could never have made Lúthien's choice. Not now, as I look upon the stricken visage of my dear father and know that I am the cause.   
  
I knew also from the time I first beheld Estel in fair Lórien, that for him I would forswear the gifts of the One to the Eldar. It was a simple choice to make, when I and my love were safe upon the hill of Cerin Amroth. How else could I choose, when I beheld the weariness of toil and suffering in the eyes of that Man and knew that he willingly bore their weight for love of me? I knew what would follow when I pledged my heart to him, or so I thus believed. I did not know, not truly.   
  
If my thoughts now were voiced, one might believe that I have come to regret my choice of a husband. But that is not so--I love Estel, such as I could never love another. I once wished in my secret heart that he were truly the son of Elves--or perhaps that I were the daughter of the Édain, that there might be only joy in our union and no sorrow. But I no longer desire such things, for I have come to know the folly of wishful thought, and if it were truly otherwise, Estel and I would never have met. And I do not hate my love for the Dúnadan.   
  
Yet that indeed is Father's wish, though I know he would deny it, thinking to spare me. In a part of his heart that he keeps hidden from the world, he ever mourns my meeting with the son of Arathorn and desires that he might somehow change the fates, that I might never have so much as glanced upon Estel. But he sees my love for the Man, and it constrains his tongue. _O Father!_ If only you could accept that, were I Peredhel or Elda true, it would not matter. I could not bear to face the long ages of Eä with only memories to warm me. A wasting death would be my fate even were I not blessed with the Choice of Lúthien, for grief would consume me, even in the Blessed Realm.   
  
My poor father. For long now we have talked of times long past...of the mischief of children, friends who have long since departed, times of great pain, and of great joy. He does not wish to dwell on the bitterness that lies before us, though soon we must, yet the bitterness taints our memories, as the memories only darken the looming shadow. It is long since I have seen the Lord Elrond weep. Not since the day my mother departed from Mithlond, has any moisture save rainfall touched that face I have come to know so well.   
  
The departure of Celebrían, most beloved of Rivendell, was a time of grief for us all, my father and brothers, and for myself. Yet it was not the grief borne of death, suffered by the Secondborn. For the Eldar, such a parting is brief, and the knowledge of eventual reunion is a comfort that drives away the pain. Even death does not separate the Elves; ere long by our reckoning do we--they--return from the Halls of Mandos after a time of rest. It is a strange thing, then, to know that when the Lord Elrond departs from this place, never again will I see his face, save in dream and memory only.   
  
It is strange to know that though I have been Elda for more than a hundred lives of Men, I am no longer counted among the Firstborn of Arda. I do not feel mortal, not yet. Though I am called Peredhel, I have lived with full share of the inheritance of the Eldar, and the ways of Men are strange. Perhaps this is what troubles my father most of all. I will not burden him with these thoughts, but only now have I begun to truly consider the choice I have made.   
  
The Eldar are not born possessed of wisdom, whatever Men may say. The wisdom of the Elves is the wisdom of the ages, and those Elves who were born in Arda in this Third Age, known by the Elves as the age of fading, have not the wisdom of those who, like the Lord Elrond, were born in the First Age. Neither do I possess the same foresight as he who once wielded a Ring of Power that now is but a trinket to adorn his hand, though some things there are that my heart can see. And for these things, also, I thank Elbereth. Foresight brings not always knowledge that one desires, but wisdom commands that such fore-knowledge be heeded, no matter the cost.   
  
I was not ruled by wisdom or foresight when first I met Estel again, under the eaves of Lorien. I had laughed at the boy, but I marveled at the Man he became, and it was then, as he strode toward me with his gift of gold blossoms, that I cast aside my Elven grace to be with him. I thought not of my father, or others; Estel was my only thought.   
  
I wonder now if I would have made the Choice of Lúthien, if I been elsewhere when the time for decisions was come, and I had not been blinded by Estel's countenance. For I cannot revoke my choice now. And I would not, even were I able, for I regret not my love. Yet now my father's eyes shine with tears he will not shed, and his lips quiver. Elrond the Wise blames Aragorn son of Arathorn for this day, this I have known for many seasons hence. But the pain of loss that fills my father's heart and mine is of my own making, and Estel is free of the blame. He loves me, and chose me for his Queen, though he knew what he asked of my father, and of me. But it is I who wrought this doom that mingles sorrow and joy. I doubt not that my father would have scoffed at the bidding of his guest and denied him, had I not spoken of my own desire.   
  
Ah, the burden of such choice. I am glad of my love for Estel, and I have waited long to stand at his side, no longer grasping at sparse and fleeting moments that we may share. I will go wheresoever he will, and his face is a joy to me. But the day is nearly done, and my beloved father must soon depart.   
  
I find myself filled with sudden hate for wisdom and foresight. I regret that my father must bear the burden of such 'gifts' from the One, and yet I curse my lack of them. Though I would not wish to be parted from Estel, neither do I wish to be parted ever from my kin. Yet that is the doom of the choice of the Peredhil, and if I will have the one I may not have the other.   
  
The Sun is lowering in the sky. The day is nearly done, and we cannot delay our sundering forever.   
  
My heart goes cold. Regret has found me, and I am suddenly in doubt. What have I done? Soon, I will never see my father again, and my mother is lost to me already. And if my brothers choose also to sail into the West, they too, are lost. Is this the price of loving one of the Édain, that I should be sundered for all time from those who loved me first? It is not fair that loss should be the price of any love.   
  
I look once more into my father's grey eyes, so like my own, though his surpass mine in knowledge. The shadow overtakes me at last and, perhaps foolishly, I rush forward and fling myself into his arms, once more a child frightened by the wind who is in need of fatherly comfort. He embraces me eagerly, and I begin to weep bitterly against his shoulder as he strokes my hair and murmurs soft words of an ancient Noldorin song that once eased a small Elf-child into sleep. The memory is sweet, but it does not blunt my sorrow.   
  
There is no true comfort for this sort of pain, but I am no longer a frightened child, and the life I have willingly chosen is waiting for me. Estel is waiting. Finally, though the long embrace now seems cruelly brief, I pull away from my sweet father, ready to bear the pain I have taken upon myself. I think I pull away too quickly for him; there is a hurt in the Lord Elrond's eyes that speaks of betrayal. But I must not continue to dwell on injuries that cannot be redressed. We must go our separate ways and trust to time for the healing of wounds. There is no other choice now left.   
  
Taking a breath and silently asking Elbereth to give me strength, I step closer to my father and kiss him gently on his fair brow in gesture of farewell. Then, with great effort, I turn and walk away from the life and the family that I have known, toward the one that now awaits. There is aught else that I may do.   
  
And I will treasure Estel all the days that we will have together, never taking a single moment for granted, in memory of the dooms that purchased our union.   
  
  
  
  


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